110706W
Years ago I was attending events and meetings and public talks run by the 'far left wing' political mobs, when I was still living and working in Victoria.
Salt of the Earth Dudes and Dudettes, in all of 'em, no doubt.
But it wasn't until I found myself going to Aborigine talks, that I started my REALPolitikal education.
Thanks Gazza! Thanks Jacelyn!
But even then, I didn't realise how stupid whitefella I wuz.
I'd lived alone most of my adult life, and so, for my socially-confined upbringing, would watch and listen to the ABC mostly, rather than the brain-softening commercials, so when I wasn't climbing the REALAlternative learning curve, or attending the extremely Straight School of Philosophy, and following it's unsurpassed Instructions on Self-Knowledge and Meditation, I'd automatically tune-in to Aunty, almost 'trance-like'.
But after years of hearing 'strange' things on regular programs, where guests would be cut-off rudely without explanation, I finally accepted that these were the ABC censoring politically sensitive discussions.
So 'bye-bye!' I waved, and wandered-off into the oblivia of safe-harbour-free medialand.
Fortunately (OR NOT!), I was by then a Nomad, living in a vehicle, rootless, and driving from one side of the land to another chasing political events. Or running from mysteriously appearing gangs of bikers?
Decided I couldn't write anything yesserday, so shutdown....
110707Th
Another go!?
Tried to write something going to Issues' BLECK, yesserday, but occult pressure had me shutdown.
I slept sort-of 'well' last night, but couldn't get off the bunk for a hazy hangover type feeling, added to by a resignation that nothing was worth it anymore.
Late yesserday, I realised that after about four or more days parked next to a typical piece of forestry carnage, with a fallen tree trunk lying with the underside of the roots system facing the rear-end of the ute-hut doors, still surrounded by the dirt the roots lived-in, I realised that I was, with my recharging the batteries via an idling diesel motor, pouring the fumes from the exhaust pipe almost straight into the nest of a small flock/family of pretty-little birds. Their nest is tunnelled into the underside dirt of the roots.
Before I woke-up to the possible killing of the birds young chicks inside the tunnel-nest, I'd taken a bank of photos of the lovely little critters with the camcorder, and, to my later disgust, I'd mimicked the calls of the birds as they loitered around the back doors, with my guitar.
As said, later, I realised I was probably mimicking their distress and aggression calls, cries, for their being prevented from tending privately to their little chicks inside the root's dirt.
Now, I'm 200 metres down the track, away from them, and in the full sun, giving the solar panels the rays to recharge the over-drained batteries.
In climbing out of the ute-hut, I sent a Kookaburra flying away.
Up here, in southern Queensland bushland, or what remains of the ongoing forestry carnage the whiteface scum-of-the-earth are doing, there aren't anywhere near the number of snakes, lizards, monitors or birds-of-prey anymore.
In fact, over the last year or so that I've been camping in the SE Queensland state forests, I have not seen one snake. Perhaps a few monitors, or 'Goannas', and very few Eagles or larger birds of prey.
When I first landed in the forest here, there were 'canies' everywhere. Strangely now, I don't hear or see them?
But the Kookaburra doesn't “Kook-kook-kook” anymore.
There aren't families of them, singing-in the evening with a carol loud, harmonious and divine to hear. Well, not often 'harmonious', but just hearing them brings a lift of joy to the Soul.
Now, you might hear a few of them. But the solo Kookaburra doesn't sing.
The Kookaburra loiters alone - no partner anymore. No doubt a victim of the torrid 'cane toads' that whiteface dicksuckers introduced over the period of their invasion and sugarcane crop plantation plague. Introduced to kill-off the poisonous native snakes, I think, which re-occupied the plantation fields in their country after the sugarcane was introduced, and which were a problem for the sugar cane harvesters.
When the toads were set-free into the country, the sugar was harvested by what the whiteface called 'Kanakas', who were captured Pacific Islanders, slaves.
Now, Australia's second biggest plague of introduced vermin is the cane toad - second only to the whiteface scum themselves.
The toad is spreading unchecked across the continent, already well-established across the eastern regions of the 'Northern Territory' wiping-out the native fauna as they hop, and hitch under vehicles.
So, all this. And then I get a few jollies watching the Foxtel 'Fox8' channel on my 30mm square screen. This week, it's all 'Chuck' an American, Jewish spy-comedy about America's heroic CIA undercover agents.
As usual, all actions and counter-conspiracies are exaggerated. Blown to totally unrealistic proportions, and have all the necessary ingredients of drama, guns, super-high-technology gizmos, evil scum, plots, high life travel, comedy..., and..... romance.
So far this morning, as I am deflated and depressed by nature's events, by the horror of living in Astrayliar, by the utterly shitful existence for mummy's little baybee, and puppet of OH! The CIA, MI6, ASIO and the Catholic nutters who want to run everything and the world, and me, I have watched as the sitcom's hero, 'Chuck' wins back the girl-spy 'Sarah' from his rival spy 'Shaw'.
Of course, Chuck wins.
Of course, it's all bullshit. Fantasy, and liable to incite serious delusions in those lonely souls who have nothing better to do than to watch Murdoch's indoctrination channels on their mobiles.
Thanks Catholics! Thanks mum!
On the other side of the whiteface retard-town of Gympie, where I've been stupid enough to rent a couple of sheds to complete my ute-hut, the pathological liars of Catholicism and of every other cult who reckon they're the ones to save my screwed soul, ensure I cannot do anything without their insane witchcraft peering-in and hexing my body, mind and all the bits and pieces there-in.
As, the sheds cost $150/fortnight to rent, as I'm paying-off the 'panbrake' machine I bought to fold the metal skin for the ute-hut until mid-August, so can't afford the next batch of materials, and as I waste some $100/week on diesel getting to/fro the shed/forest, it's kinda hard to be motivated and happy - ALL THINGS CONSIDERED.
Yippee! Aye?
But, using the time elsewhere, I'll try focus on Issue's BLECK today, and write something on other REALPolitik Astrayliar, not on whiteface Astrayliar.
Maybe?
All the above misery should inspire me to write one or more poems, seeking the more divine language of the Soul to elucidate these feelings of sadness for my Country, and for, of course, my forlorn heart........
So..., here's one....
“Kooka don't sing anymore...”
Scrub don' rustle, from the sniffin' Goanna
Air ain't so full, of all the bird-calls.
Mum Earth is sad for the Balance of the critters being gone
an' Bleck Fella sits broken, in outback river beds and Alice's shoppin' malls.
Here-an-there, just a single Wallabe or 'Roo
scamper-hops away, wisely scared of the wheels.
Their family is road-kill,
their country shit-on by cattle
and horse or dirt-bike-ridin' dills.
Sun, Sacred Father, beats heat on our heads
night sky glistens stars and clear air on our beds.
Nature's medicine cabinet ain' growin' her herbs,
and we drive to the supermarket, cause there ain' no food out there, no more.
The most beautiful Spiders disappearin', little creatures too
but on the monocrop roads, moths and locusts plague the grills.
The rhythm of True Livin', has lost it's beat
an it's a crime for a coloured, to laze on the street.
Even in our own land, our Ancients Ancestors and Elders
are ridiculed and disregarded,
by the faceless fools who got all the hi-tech tools,
to make a profiting deal, lying astray, our land they steal.
Kooka don' sing anymore,
the joy they used to.
Goanna when y' see one, is angry,
she/he knows what we done.
Lil' possum leaps through the trees,
then sits quiet, observing our camp,
knowing whitey's the problem,
but they's too small to shoo them off.
The spark of plenty, ain't in any o' their eyes.
But they keep scratching for feed, sad,
knowing this Dreamin' has died.
Shit you're a depressing being, whiteface!
